


memory loss

by elijay



Series: because there really isn't enough of Neal Caffrey being one of the Robins in our lives [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, White Collar
Genre: ...i have no clue if it's temporary or not, Amnesia, BAMF Neal Caffrey, BAMF Tim Drake, BAMF all the bat-people actually, Batbrothers (DCU), Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Tries to Be a Good Older Sibling, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick is a mom brother, Gen, Identity Reveal, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Neal Caffrey is Tim Drake, Neal Caffrey-centric, Probably too Much So, Teenage Neal Caffrey, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake has Chronic Pain, Tim Drake is Neal Caffrey, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake is talkative and chatty, Tim Drake-centric, Tim has a knife guys, Young Neal Caffrey, i feel both of those tags are relevant despite him not actually being in this, i hate summaries and summaries hate me, i will endeavour to have Diana and Jones play some part in this, if i continue this you'll be damn sure i include the batfamily so i might as well, oh yeah, okay i have enough bs tags i can go now, one of those, sort of? mentally? but he's also not really Neal Caffrey at that age in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elijay/pseuds/elijay
Summary: Neal keeps all three of them in front of him as he grabs the badges and checks them over.“Diana Berrigan… and Clinton Jones,” he sounds out. “And he is Peter…?”“Burke,” Jones fills in. “Peter Burke, white collar crimes unit. Your handler. You… don’t remember, do you?”Neal snorts. “How astute of you, Jones. And I am?”Concern flickers through Diana. “You don’t know?”Neal looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “I know who I am, I want to know who you think I am.”“Neal Caffrey,” she replies confidently. “Con man, forger, world-class thief, now a criminal consultant for the white collar crimes unit of the FBI.”She’s expecting Neal to nod and agree in some way, but instead he snorts again. “What an alias - Neal Caffrey. Tell me, how long has he been with you? And how old is he, again?”---Neal Caffrey is actually Tim Drake.
Relationships: Diana Berrigan & Neal Caffrey, Neal Caffrey & Clinton Jones, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: because there really isn't enough of Neal Caffrey being one of the Robins in our lives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785382
Comments: 168
Kudos: 706





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/06/13
> 
> oookay i wasn’t really meaning to post this, because i’m doing my best to not post anything that’s not a one-shot, drabble, or already finished work, because i know i’m horrible at actually finishing things, but... i couldn't help myself?
> 
> the title is sucky but it probably won’t change, sorry.
> 
> please let me know what you guys think of it. (my lack of experience in actual plot is showing, i think.) i don’t know if i’ll ever continue it - maybe if inspiration strikes me someday. it’s also not beta-read, or even proofread by anyone other than me. ...i’ll probably go over it and edit some stuff in the next week or so. tbh, i’m only publishing it right now because i need to do productive things in the morning and i’d love to wake up to a few kudos (hopefully) to set me in the right mood for all that.
> 
> also i have a Jason Todd is Neal Caffrey thing in my docs, which, whenever i post it, will go in this series. if anyone’s interested in that.

“How’s Caffrey?” Jones asks, steadying his gun in a ready position.

“He’s drugged, and the only good thing about the situation is that he isn’t singing this time,” Peter says dryly, checking a slumped-over Neal, “if only because he’s not conscious.”

He gets two responses.

“Caffrey’s been drugged before?”

“Singing? Ouch.”

Peter sighs, despite their current situation. “Yes, he has. Long story. And he’s actually not a half bad singer, it’s just that he was rather… _loud_.” His expression says the rest.

Jones winces, and mutters, “Well, we better hope he wakes up soon and doesn’t start singing.”

Diana nods in grim agreement, and she sees Peter’s face turn worried as he holds Neal and looks out into the hallway. They’re stuck in a sub-basement level of a building, the elevator’s quit responding to them, the doors to the staircases are electronically locked, and, to their knowledge, there are patrolling guards above.

It’s a _situation_ , and not one they are used to.

They’re hoping Neal will be more used to it, or at least be able to provide some experience, or _something_.

Then Peter is slammed onto the ground with a thud, and Jones whirls around, gun at the ready but- it’s Neal who is on top of Peter with his knee digging to the older man’s back, a sharp-looking knife that he seemingly pulled out of nowhere at Peter’s throat. Peter doesn’t look to be conscious.

There is a moment of silence as Neal glares up at them. “I want answers,” he growls out. “What am I doing here?”

“What? Caffrey-” Diana starts, but swallows harshly when a line of blood appears on Peter’s throat.

“Answers. Now.”

“Okay,” Jones says cautiously. “Okay, Ca- Neal. I’m putting my gun on the ground, don’t hurt Peter.”

“Don’t make me ask a third time.” Neal’s voice is growly and low, menacing in a way that the smooth con man's voice has never been before.

“Okay!” Diana yelps, mind racing. “Um, what are you doing here, right? Well, we were working a case…”

\---

“...and now we’re trapped in the basement level. The elevator seems to be out, and the stairs are locked electronically. We believe there are guards on the floors above.”

Tim’s eyes narrow as the dark-haired, dark-skinned woman finishes explaining what _they_ are doing there. “Alright,” he says, and watches as the two _federal agents_ , apparently, relax ever so slightly, before he continues, “that doesn’t answer my question, though it helps clear up the where a bit. Why am _I_ ,” he emphasises, “here. With you.”

The two exchange a confused glance. “Neal, you’re our CI. Peter,” the man speaking gestures to the brown-haired, white man still in his grasp, “is your handler.”

Tim hums. “Right. Because you’re FBI agents,” he says dryly.

The woman blinks, as if that’s not something she thought would come into question. “Yes, we are. Here, why don’t we show you our badges?”

“Hm,” he agrees, making sure to subtly draw attention to the knife at the senior agent’s throat. “Slowly.”

He can see them gulp.

\---

He asks for their badges, and they hold them out, worried for Peter and the glinting knife at his throat. 

“No, toss them over here.” They land in front of him. “I need my hands,” he mutters, probably to himself, and withdraws his knife.

They relax a little more as the threat to Peter’s life is removed. Then Neal’s hands move to Peter’s throat in a choke hold and they cry out.

“Relax,” he snaps, fingers tightening on Peter’s throat until his breathing must be obstructed. “I’m just checking he’s not faking it.”

“By choking him?!” Diana snarls, outrage clouding her mind as she watches, wary and unable to help.

“Yes,” Neal replies, slowly, as if they are idiots. “If he’s conscious, he’ll react in a different way than if he’s unconscious. It’s a reliable way to tell if someone’s faking. Even if it’s not, you know, the most elegant.” Then, he releases his grip and Peter falls to the ground, slack but breathing.

Neal keeps all three of them in front of him as he grabs the badges and checks them over.

“Diana Berrigan… and Clinton Jones,” he sounds out. “And he is Peter…?”

“Burke,” Jones fills in. “Peter Burke, white collar crimes unit. Your handler. You… don’t remember, do you?”

Neal snorts. “How astute of you, Jones. And I am?”

Concern flickers through Diana. “You don’t know?”

Neal looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “I know who I am, I want to know who you think I am.”

 _Right, because he’s a con man_.

“Neal Caffrey,” she replies confidently. “Con man, forger, world-class thief, now a criminal consultant for the white collar crimes unit of the FBI.”

She’s expecting Neal to nod and agree in some way, but instead he snorts again. “What an alias - _Neal Caffrey_. Tell me, how long has he been with you? And how old is he, again?”

\---

Peter wakes up to Neal Caffrey saying, “What an alias - _Neal Caffrey_. Tell me, how long has he been with you? And how old is he, again?”

He hears Diana reply with confusion and concern and a bit of fear and maybe a small portion of anger in her voice, “You’ve been our CI for a couple years now, before that you were in prison for almost four, and before that we were chasing you for three. You’re thirty-four.”

Neal - _or, is it not Neal, is that not really his name?_ \- chuckles at the age. “Thirty-four? Wow.”

Peter groans aloud, making his presence known, and rolls over to see Neal. The thief is crouching in a ready position, loosely gripped but expertly held knife in one hand and two FBI badges in the other. His eyes dart to meet Peter’s. 

“How old do you think you are, then?” Peter says and then coughs as his throat aches.

Neal-not-Neal huffs, and says, “According to my memories, I’m sixteen. But clearly I’m… not. Because I don’t remember Neal Caffrey, and I think I’d remember being chased by the FBI, being put in prison, and then being released on a… work-release deal,” he guesses. Then he asks, “What’s the date?”

“20XX, October 19th,” Jones answers, as he comes over to Peter to help him up.

“Huh. Well, thirty-four’s wrong,” Neal says off-handedly, like what he’s saying isn’t blowing the agents’ minds. “If that date’s right, I’d be twenty-four, not thirty-four. Eight years… well, you said three years, four years, and then a couple more, so I suppose if I started putting this alias’ history into place now, then that could be true.”

Shock and horror and disbelief strikes Peter’s mind. “But that would mean…”

“That I was nineteen when you arrested me?” Not-Neal questions, and then confirms, “Yes.” At their looks, his expression softens and he offers, “If it makes you feel better, I can almost guarantee you I didn’t actually spend those four years in prison.”

Peter’s gaze sharpens as he takes in what the man in front of him is saying. “What?”

“Yeah. My family wouldn’t let me rot there for _that_ long.”

“ _Family_?”

“Oh, did Neal Caffrey not have family? ‘Suppose that makes some sense. Anyway - onto more current problems.” He straightens up until he’s standing straight and makes a surprised noise. “Wow. I do grow taller. Nice.” Then he takes a step, and surprise and awe fills his face.

“Neal?” slips out of Peter’s mouth before he can stop it. He ignores the pang it sends through him and continues, “What is it?”

“It’s not…” the man trails off.

“Not what?” Diana asks.

Not-Neal’s startlingly blue blue eyes glance over theirs quickly before moving back to his leg. He twists his back and shoulders and rolls his neck and shifts his arms around.

“It’s not painful,” he says, and something in his tone breaks Peter’s heart. “It should be painful. They said- they said it wouldn’t ever not be painful. Why isn’t… Why isn’t it painful?”

“Neal-” Peter starts, but is cut off by Neal sticking a hand out, palm forward, in the universal ‘wait’ signal. Except this one has a knife still in his hand.

“No. I need to make sure… make sure this is my body, and not some stranger’s or something.” 

As the three agents are blinking in confusion, he turns his left forearm over, angles his knife, and before they can stop him, has his fingers digging around in the wound he makes.

“Neal!” Peter yells. “What are you doing?!”

Neal throws his hand off, and grunts, “Checking for the tracker.”

Jones frowns, incredulous. “Tracker?”

“B doesn’t think I know, but he puts…” he makes an ‘ah-ha’ noise, and pulls his fingers out, a small, blinking device in his fingers, “... a tracker in our arms. And our shoulders and hips and clothes, but, this does.” He blinks at it in satisfaction and narrows his eyes in thought.

At this, Peter just explodes with frustration. “Okay, Neal! Or whatever your name is, because apparently Neal isn’t it! You’re going to explain to me exactly what is going on, who you really are, and then we’re going to come up with some way to get out of here!”

Not-Neal blinks for a moment, before, “Okay. I’ve apparently lost eight years worth of memory. If the date you gave me is true, and I’m twenty-four, not thirty-four, though I don’t remember past sixteen. My name’s Tim, by the way. I probably shouldn’t tell you more than that, though. Or really that, honestly. Ah, and I can get us out of here - basement floor, electronic locks, and guards? Easy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i found out i’d been writing ‘Caffery’ not ‘Caffrey’ when i went to tag characters when posting. i fixed it, but… i have no words.
> 
> unrelated, i am not expert on how to check if people are unconscious. I’m sure there are easier ways than the way Tim did in here. i have no idea if that method would actually work or not, or really anything to do with it. so, don’t try at home and if you have knowledge about such subjects, come forth and educate me if you want.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team learn a little more about Tim - but not nearly as much as they want. Tim finds something a suspicious about the people holding them, but doesn't explain. At all. Also, Tim is a BAMF in different ways than Neal.
> 
> commented summaries: 
> 
> \- 'Neal-not-Neal shocks the white collar team when he reveals more talents they thought their non-violent conman was capable of.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/10/4
> 
> have a continuation! i've changed the chapter count from completed to incomplete now, because this one's ending doesn't pass as a two-shot ending, but i'm not sure if more will ever come, so don't hold your breath. i wrote this just earlier today and figured i'd post it before i forgot about it.
> 
> if you see any errors in the chapter, please point them out so i can fix them up! i did go through this but not very thoroughly, but i wrote it earlier so i may be blind to errors at the moment.

"You… really don’t know us, do you?” Jones says as he watches Neal- no, _Tim_ , fiddle with the electric locks. He already did _something_ to the cameras.

“No. My second eldest brother’s middle name is Peter, though,” he offers. Then he shakes his head, and mumbles, barely audible, “God, I must have hit my head, why would I say that…”

The three agents exchanged looks. _Tim_ was being very talkative, and quite revealing. They weren’t sure Neal would appreciate it, when he remembers.

They resolutely don’t think _if_ he remembers.

They _do_ wonder why a supposed sixteen-year-old knows how to hack security cameras and electric locks. Neal seemingly didn’t, so why does Tim?

“Ah,” Tim says, his hand stilling. “Problem.”

“What? What is it?” Peter crowds up to the lock next to his CI. (Ex-CI? To-be CI?) To him, it just looks like a mess of wires.

“This might take a few more minutes than I originally thought,” Tim explains as Diana and Jones get closer to see what he’s gesturing at. “This is unfamiliar technology, I’ll be honest. Not super advanced, but just… _different_. Good news for you, this adds more credibility to your story of this being the future. Eight or nine years… sure, I could imagine this becoming the norm.”

Jones hums a vague sound of agreement, as the three of them back off to continue letting Tim fiddle with the wires. “So,” Diana starts. “You know your way around technology.”

Tim huffs out a laugh. “‘Know my way around technology.’ Ha. Lady, I invent technology. It’s what I do.”

Peter laughs, “No, no, see, Neal Caffrey doesn’t know much about technology. Not more than the average person, anyway.”

“Point against you,” Tim murmurs.

“Sorry?”

“The advancement in technology I see here,” he makes a gleeful ‘a-ha’ as he leans away from the mess of wires and the door gives a soft click, “gives you a point. That just took one away.” He spins around to lean against the wall and look back at them with sharp eyes.

“Point for what?”

“Me believing you in your whole criminal consultant-FBI-amnesia story.” At their expressions, he shakes his head and mocks, “Wow, you guys are slow.”

“Hey,” Jones starts, “someone we thought we knew appears to have lost years or memory and is also some sort of technology genius, and is also a decade younger than we thought, I think we’re entitled to a bit of confusion!”

Tim eyes him with an unreadable look for a brief moment, before frowning and ignoring him to growl, “Stay behind me.” He pushes the door open, and his knife falls back into his hand, another quickly joining it in his left hand. Peter eyes them warily as Tim spins and flicks them around his fingers deftly.

“We’re also going to have a long chat about those knives when we get out of here,” Peter mutters, only to be shushed by Tim, who holds a hand out, again with a knife, in a stop motion. He then points to the three of them and down to the ground where they are standing - _stay_.

Tim creeps along the wall, approaching a corner, and as Peter strains his ears, he can hear approaching guards. He takes his gun out, but stays. Tim crouches just before the bend and closes his eyes, brow furrowed. A few beats pass, and the footsteps become louder, closer. Just as Peter is about to move, Tim breathes a deep breath out and twists and throws and lunges, and there’s a muffled scream, and then a grunt and a cut-off swear before Peter, Jones, and Diana can rush around the corner, guns lifted and adrenaline pumping.

They come to a startled stop at the scene in front of them. There are two guards. One is unconscious, a stab wound sluggishly bleeding from his shoulder and blood trickling from underneath his hair. The second is conscious, but Tim has his legs neatly wrapped with a make-shift cloth tie and an arm twisted at a painful angle behind his back. There’s also a knife buried in his leg, angled up just under the kneecap in a way that must be excruciating, and a knife held tightly at his throat.

Tim has a dark look on his face, and someone gulps, and it’s not the guard.

The guard’s eyes are glazed with pain, but he’s conscious enough to also show fear. “Who do you work for, hm?”

“What-” the guard gasps out, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t work for who your badge says you work for,” Tim says, his voice low and rough. “So who?”

“Man- I swear, I don’t- I don’t-”

Tim scoffs. “Really? ‘I don’t know?’ That’s the best you can do?” He leans closer to the helpless guard’s ear, and whispers something Peter can’t quite hear from where he’s standing. The guard’s eyes roll back after a minute, though, and he passes out, going lax in Tim’s tight grip. Tim lets him fall to the ground with a look of cultivated disdain. He shakes his head. “Useless.” Then he pauses, shakes his head, and mutters, "I sound like the demon brat."

Tim leans down and picks up the now-unconscious guard’s discarded gun. The FBI team eyes him warily, still shocked from the previous display of violence. Tim stares at it, face unreadable, for a few long seconds. A scowl quickly flashes across his face, and all of the sudden he jerkily begins to unload the gun, bullets falling to the floor. When it’s fully unloaded, he tucks it into his waist. 

At their looks, he offers, “Don’t like guns.”

Peter swallows, and something like relief blooms in his chest at the similarity. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Tim flashes him an odd look as he surveys the scene he’s caused one last time and then sweeps down the hallway. The three FBI agents don’t follow, and a few seconds later, they hear more muffled grunts and screams.

“That was…” Jones starts. “So weird.”

Diana nods. “Beyond weird. Scary,” she adds.

“Suspicious,” Peter says, frowning. “I don’t like it. I mean, it’s good it looks like Neal- sorry, _Tim_ , can get us out of here, because I don’t know if we would’ve been able to without him, but… violence isn’t Neal’s thing. Nor is technology, but that’s relatively minor compared to,” he gestures to the fallen, still bleeding guards. Tim had also pulled his knife out of the second one’s leg when he had the chance. “...this.”

Diana nods. “It doesn’t really look good, does it, boss?”

“No, Diana, it doesn’t.”

“And there’s also the age, the tracker, the family, and prison,” Jones says, quietly.

Peter sighs. “Dammit, Neal.”

“Dammit, Neal,” Diana echos.

Then Tim pops his head around the corner he’d turned down a couple minutes ago. There’s blood not only on his knife but also coating a couple of his fingers now, and there’s a splatter on his leg. His arm wound, the one he pulled the tracker out of, is making a dark patch on his sleeve. Overall, it’s not a look Neal sports often. The team exchanges looks. 

“You guys coming?” he calls. “I’ve cleared most of the way, I think. And the cameras are still offline, but someone’s bound to notice the looping I did soon. There’s also the fact patrols aren’t checking in anymore.” There’s a contemplative look on his face as he evaluates all the variables. “Yeah, we should probably get a move on.”

He turns back down the hallway he came from, and Peter says, “Well, he’s still chatty, there’s that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so now Tim thinks there's something up with the guards and who they work for. do i think that? i don't know. maybe, or maybe Tim's just being overly bat-suspicious. also, remember he's probably got some sort of head injury/something that's making him overly chatty & revealing!
> 
> also, i never do multichap stories so when faced with adding a 'chapter summary' i was pretty much: confusion. what do i put. so i didn't really put anything? at the moment, anyway.
> 
> have ideas? please, comment them! i get inspiration from ideas and comments and half of my stuff is written because of them. just like it? leave a kudos! bookmark it! subscribe! wow, i now realise why i rarely put effort into asking ppl to do these things.
> 
> also, if you like, check out my Jason-is-Neal story, in this series, which is now posted
> 
> edit, one day later: lastly, someone commented a possible summary and i've put it in above now, and will add other comment summaries if others comment them, because i am apparently incapable of writing my own.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four make their exit. Tim's having some serious problems shutting up. The team doesn't do much other than be confused and probably pick up a few misunderstandings about Tim's home life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/10/9
> 
> tw: panic attack. i've had a good few myself, but the method i use to help myself through wouldn't really work with the way Tim's personality is and his current mental state, and the agents', so i simply used a method that only sometimes works for me, but i've seen around quite a bit - the simple in & out, 1234, 5678 counting. if you really don't want to read because you think you might be triggered, scroll down to the bottom, leave a comment saying so, and i can summarize what happens for you. you should be good to read until Tim says, "Yeah, I can't seem to turn my mouth off."
> 
> \--
> 
> otherwise, i hope you guys enjoy this. it's the longest one so far, but it's still now very long - what do you guys think about length? should i try and lengthen chapters, but in more content, or is this good?
> 
> once again, i will warn, don't expect regular/frequent updates. this came out of nowhere, written mostly the day i posted chapter 2 and the day after that. second warning, if this actually ends up going somewhere plot-wise, i'll probably need to clean up and change a few minor details in the first chapters - minor edits may happen.

“And we’re out!” Tim exclaims as they burst into an alleyway through a dingy door. Because the last stretch involved plenty of running and scrambling and trying not to get shot, they’re all panting furiously.

Tim quickly catches his breath, glad to know that his future self - apparently, he’s still not sure considering all the different options that could lead to him occupying an older body, in the maybe-future, with supposed federal agents talking to him like someone they know - kept in shape. He glances up to check the cameras, but thankfully they’re all pointing to the door and none of them are tilted towards the opposite wall they’re recovering next to - they seem to have escaped without tagalongs.

They should probably get out of this alleyway quickly, however.

He bites his lip, considering, and looks first to the busy street, people bustling by, and then to down the empty, dark alley where it looks like the alley continues to twist and wind, and then up to the tops of the few-storied buildings surrounding them.

As the agents - if they are really agents - mutter among themselves, he makes a decision. He can’t risk getting lost in unfamiliar alleyways, but, he thinks, taking a quick glance down at his bloodied clothes, nor can he exactly walk out onto a populated street looking like he does. He also should really verify the whole future thing.

“Hey,” he calls. “Where are we?”

“We’d have to check the street signs,” the one Tim is 90% sure is called Jones calls back.

“But you probably shouldn’t go walking around in the public,” the lady one, Diana, says.

Before she can continue, Tim waves at her absently, craning his head up. “I know, I know. Bloody clothes, no-go public settings. You think this is my first rodeo? Geez. And I meant more, you know, Earth? Continent? Country? City?” He answers some of it himself, finding himself a lot more talkative than he usually is, “Well, I’m assuming this is North America, probably America, ‘cause you’re saying you’re FBI, and not southern judging by your accents. I’ve got it narrowed down to a few cities, but you guys live here, so…?”

“New York,” Peter fills in while Jones and Diana stare and shake their heads, respectively. “Neal, what are you thinking?”

“Tim,” Tim corrects. “And I need fresh clothes, and a phone. But first, I’d like to get a view of the city, so…” Then he backs up a step and pushes off the ground and then the wall with a grunt as he reaches up and just barely grabs onto an extendable ladder-staircase on the side of the building. “Adjusting to this body sucks,” he complains as he climbs, and gestures for them to follow, “it’s so much taller and bulkier.”

“Bulky? I wouldn’t say you’re bulky, Neal,” Diana says wryly as she’s the first to follow, climbing the ladder-stairs before they can shift back up. 

“Tim. And I wouldn’t either,” Tim chats, “but compared to what I’m used to, I totally am now. And it’s _weird_.”

Behind him, Peter muffles a bark of laughter, and Tim only just hears him mutter to Jones, “He’s acting like a teenager,” to which Jones mutters back, “He is a teenager right now,” which seems to sober Peter.

“Where are we going,” Peter grunts as he climbs, “Tim?”

“To the roof!” Tim calls back down.

“To get a view of the city?”

“Yeah, it’s not that I don’t believe you but I don’t believe you,” he says, “and seeing the city would help, because I know New York, and even eight or so years will change a place.”

It takes them more time than Tim would’ve liked, but considering the three clambering up behind him don’t seem to be used to the sort of building-scaling he is, only a few minutes to climb a many-storied building isn’t bad. Tim hauls himself over the edge and tucks into a neat roll and spry spring upright. He lands a little unsteadily, underestimating his size.

He casts his gaze out onto the city, just as Diana climbs over the ledge and rolls into a crouch. A couple moments later, Jones joins her, then Peter.

“Satisfied?” Jones asks, breath heavy.

Tim cocks his head, surveying the city. The view is pretty good for a random building, and he can see that it’s definitely not the same New York he knows. It’s similar, very similar, but for the better part of a year, he patrolled New York at night, and so knows the rooftop view better than most, and he can clearly see changes.

He can see the Wayne Tower in the distance, even, and something in him settles a little at the sight.

Peter, finally sounding like he’s caught his breath, groans, “Another reason you definitely need that tracking anklet. You’re more in shape than most agents, evident with all your building scaling and jumping, and I can’t figure out _how_.”

Tim freezes, back to them. “I have a tracking anklet?” he asks.

Peter makes a sound of confirmation. “Yeah, a top of the line GPS tracking anklet. You are a criminal, N- Tim.”

“Right, criminal,” he murmurs. He feels laughter start to shake his shoulders.

“Are you alright, Tim?” Diana speaks in a soft, comforting voice, worry audible in her voice as she takes a few steps forward and rests a hand on his shoulder.

He nods his head, and can’t stop the laughter that follows, bubbling up in his chest. “ _GPS tracking anklet_ ,” he wheezes after a moment. “Oh, lord,” he giggles, “that’s not…”

He twists and sees the FBI trio staring at him in concerned bemusement.

“Are you okay, Tim?” Peter softly asks the laughing teen-in-an-adult’s-body. 

Tim waves a hand in his direction, and when he catches his breath, follows up with, “No, yeah, yeah, no, I’m- I’m just fine.” A snort. He feels giddy, more than is normal for such a situation. “It’s just,” he starts, and he knows he’s going to say something he shouldn’t, something he normally wouldn’t, but he can’t help himself, “a tracking anklet isn’t going to do anything, you know. I don’t know why my future self was pretending to be average with tech, but tech’s my field, my speciality. There’s no way that that tracking anklet is actually tracking me all the time. If I were me, which I am, or I will be, I’d set it up so there’s, you know, an on and off switch,” he explains. “Hack the database where the signal the anklet’s sending off is going to, and have the option to either have it look like it’s working like it’s supposed to, tracking the anklet, AKA me, and then also the option for it to, I don’t know, make it look like I’m,” at this point, he spreads his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, “wherever I want.” He laughs again at the thought, and shakes his head. “A tracking anklet…” he muses quietly. “Maybe that’s why my future self was pretending to be technologically-inept. That would make sense.”

He looks over to the trio of agents, now gaping at him.

“Yeah, I can’t seem to turn my mouth off,” he tells them, unnecessarily. “I mean, more than usual. I seem to be spilling a lot of beans I _know_ I probably shouldn’t be, but I, uh, I can’t help it.”

Tim feels the beginning of panic set into his bones as he looks out on a changed New York City and tries to snuff out the giddy feeling welling up inside him, making him want to laugh and babble. It reminds him of the Joker’s laughing gas, and when he thinks that, even more fear shoots up his spine, digging its icy-cold roots into his chest and lungs.

His breathing quickens and shortens, inhales becoming desperate gasps and exhales becoming shuddering messes as he clutches his hands to the sides of his head, digs his fingers into his hair, and squeezes his eyes closed tight as his memory threatens him.

It can’t be the Joker’s laughing gas, he tries to reason, because if there’s one thing he knows, he’s a logical person. It can’t be, it’s not, he _knows_ what that feels like and this isn’t it. New York City, he’s in New York City- no, no, he smells the smoke and the fumes and the pollution, he’s in Gotham, he’s in _Gotham_ , and since he’s in Gotham it could be the Joker, it’s probably the Joker, because the Joker never leaves Gotham, too attached the Bat and his birds, and because he’s in Gotham, and he’s been affected by the gas, the Joker’s here, the Joker’s near-

A hand on his arm, and the body attached to it slams into the ground.

He shudders again, eyes squinting open. No, that’s Peter. There’s no smog or darkness. It’s mildly sunny, even. This isn’t Gotham. That’s Peter, Peter’s a good guy, Peter’s the best. This isn’t Gotham, so it’s not the Joker’s laughing gas, so the Joker’s far, far away. 

Peter can help.

“Peter,” he says, breaths halting, “where- where are we. Tell me, tell... where we are,” he orders thinly.

Peter blinks up at him. “...New York,” he says after a moment. “Home, Neal.”

Tim shakes his head, “Not home, home’s not New York. Home wouldn’t be safe,” he stumbles through his words. “Home’s not, hasn’t been… since...”

Another hand settles on his arm, and this time he doesn’t react violently, he just flinches. It’s Diana, and she murmurs, “You’re in New York, you aren’t home. New York can be safe, Tim, if you let it be.”

Tim stares at her with bleary eyes, breaths coming in steadier. “New York,” he repeats. “New York, not Gotham. Not Gotham, I’m- I’m... in New York.”

He doesn’t miss the startled look his words bring to the agents - he’s decided, he has to trust them - but he can’t bring himself to care.

He takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, remembering the techniques that Dick taught him, that later, Jason taught him, and that eventually, he knows, the three of them will teach the new brat. When he stops trying to murder them, anyway.

“This isn’t laughing gas. The Joker’s not here,” he mutters, and he looks out upon a changed New York City, the Wayne Tower towering in the distance a comforting sight. “I’m not home. I’m not in Gotham.”

The agents are silent and staring, and he takes another deep breath in and then out.

In and out. 1, 2, 3, 4. 5, 6, 7, 8. _What are the first steps to hacking the CIA databases?_ In, out. _Patrol routes._

In. Out.

“Alright!” Tim claps his hands together sharply, shaking his to get rid of the fog and fixing his eyes firmly on the familiar, but not too familiar, skyline. “I need new clothes, a phone, and info, pronto. Stat. ASAP. Nothing to see here anymore, let’s, uh, go, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so Tim's a lot more fucked up than anybody thought. a part of it's probably only whatever drug/side effect is going on with him, but a part of it is definitely real, lasting trauma. 
> 
> let me know what you guys think, any ideas you have for where this could go are welcome, or any little things that would be interesting to add, general thoughts, spelling mistakes you see b/c i don't have a beta, other errors, etc, etc.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team has definitely picked up some misunderstandings about Tim's home life, and a phone call back home, wherein Tim gets some bad - in his opinion, anyway - news from a helpful older sibling, doesn't help much with those. Tim also gets some coffee to drink and some technology to play with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/12/31
> 
> happy new year's eve/day, depending on time zones, guys! have this chapter, which is significantly longer than the others! you may have noticed i've added a new couple of character tags - only of those shows up in this chapter, but the other is coming soon.

Tim refuses to go to the FBI office - giving the three of them a slightly freaked out look at the prospect, actually - and so, still a bit shaken up, they split up. After climbing back down from the roof, Tim carefully ignoring probing questions all the way, Peter’s coat ends up on Tim to hide the bloodstains and rips on his own clothes. They hail two cabs, one to take Diana back to the office to report to Hughes about the current situation, and the other to take Jones, Peter, and Tim to June’s, in order to find new clothes for Tim, along with some information about the current time.

Which all leads to the present situation: Jones and Peter watching Tim, dressed in cargo trousers and a dark, thin hoodie, an odd look for Neal Caffrey though apparently one he had in his wardrobe, fiddling with his phone. The blood is all cleaned up and his arm wound is bandaged. The emptied gun and the tracker he cut out of his arm lay on the table in front of him, as does a high-tech laptop he had merely frowned at and hadn’t even attempted a password. He had pulled it out of seemingly nowhere, just like the phone they hadn’t previously known existed - which looked vaguely like Wayne-tech.

The longer the silence, the deeper Peter’s disgruntled scowl. He had apparently shaken off the shock of Tim’s panic attack and subsequent slips about both the safety and location of his ‘home.’ It was, no doubt, stored somewhere in his mind to be brought up later, which Tim was not looking forward to. “What are you even doing on there?” he demands, finally fed up with this mentally de-aged Neal’s recent quiet. 

The faint bruises growing on his throat, as well as a small cut, now bandaged, don’t help his mood.

“Checking some stuff, reading text conversations,” Tim replies absently, not bothering to look up, “and wondering whether I should message someone. Or call.”

“Who?” 

Tim shrugs, hunched shoulders moving up and down briefly. “One of my siblings, maybe.”

“Siblings?” Jones asks, eyeing a fuming Peter warily. After his episode on the roof, Tim’s answers to any questions have become more and more vague, unlike before, when he seemed to have had no control over his verbal filter. 

Tim could feel the laughing gas-like urge to babble in him still, but it, just like laughing gas, was going away. He makes a mental reminder to get the vial of blood he’d neatly extracted from himself and put in the best thing he could find to keep whatever possible serum in it intact, the fridge, processed as soon as possible.

There’s a knock on the door, and Diana’s entering before Tim can answer. Not that, at the rate he’s been going, he was going to answer at all. “June let me in,” she says, scanning the room. “I informed Hughes of the situation, and he said there’s not much to be done. Neal’s still a criminal, despite his amnesia and new-found skills, so we’re just supposed to act normal and wait for his memories to return.”

Tim stills. “And if they don’t?” He meets Diana’s eyes with a startlingly calm gaze.

She shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “Then maybe there’s some plea you can use to reduce your sentence, but…” she trails off. “Unless you do anything to your tracker anklet - which is why we’re not to let you out of our sight, by the way - the idea is that nothing will change. We’ll keep shifts to stay with you all the time, and Hughes suggested employing El’s help in the meantime as well, for an extra pair of eyes.”

Tim nods, mutters something about loose lips and sunken ships, sighs, and returns to his phone.

“Anyway,” Diana continues, and when Tim doesn’t seem to pay attention, her gaze slides to Peter. “What’s the plan, boss?”

“Plan?” Peter grumbles, sullen glare fixed on Tim.

Jones gives Diana a look, lowering his voice as he fills her in. “We arrived, N- Tim showered and changed, and he’s just been going through his phone for information. Tell you more later.” Raising his voice, he turns to address Tim once more. “Siblings?” he repeats, tone questioning. “You did mention that before, as well, something about a second eldest brother?”

“Yes,” the amnesiac says shortly.

Diana raises an eyebrow. “A lot less chatty, now, huh?” Jones grunts in agreement.

“Yes,” he repeats. Then he glares at the phone’s screen, huffs, and turns it off, slipping it into his pocket as he stands up. “I’m going to go make coffee. Anybody?”

They all make affirming sounds.

The consultant leaves the room quietly, and as he putters around in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and closing them with huffs, he can hear the trio in the living room talk. “Siblings?” Diana asks, tone very curious.

Jones shrugs, and Peter says, “Apparently so,” with a bit of a grudge in his voice.

A few minutes of idle, but tense, chatter later, Tim returns with four full mugs of black coffee, skillfully held or balanced on his hands. “Sugar and milk’s in the kitchen, if you want some.”

No one gets up, and uncomfortable silence reigns.

Tim sighs, and sits down heavily. “Look, I’m sorry I’m being so unforthcoming. This is a bit of a... weird situation.” He eyes the three agents, now all seated opposite him. “You’re not going to leave me alone _at all_ , are you?”

Peter smirks, and it’s a subtle thing. “Nope.”

“Not even for a bit?”

Diana picks up her mug. “Why would you need to be alone, Tim?” she says slyly, an eyebrow raised. “Not planning anything, are you?”

Tim stares at her for a moment, before sighing again. “Right,” he says. “So, yes, I have siblings. Many of them. Too many, in my honest opinion. They’re too loud.” He studiously ignores his own rowdiness when he’s in their presence. “I’m going to call one, now. No, I’m not going to put him on speaker for you.”

With that, he pulls his phone out of his pocket once more. It only takes one ring before the other end picks up. He speaks first. “Hey, Dick,” he greets. Coming from his mouth, it doesn’t sound much like it’s an insult, but the agents still raise a collective eyebrow at the even the mildly crude word coming out of the usually high-class white collar criminal.

“Timmy! It’s so nice to hear from you so soon!” Tim rolls his eyes at the overly enthusiastic return greeting, and takes a moment to be thankful Dick’s not on speaker. “About that you-know-what I asked you about last time, do you have anything yet? I know you’re busy with everything right now and I know Steph asked for something as well the other day but-”

“... wait, slow down, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tim hesitates, but thinks that batting around a topic never got anyone anywhere, and decides to do it the familially-passed down, tried and true way of old fashioned blunt shortness. The thing that Dick never picked up. “That’s why I’m calling. I have amnesia.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Tim really isn’t appreciating the skeptical looks being sent his way from Peter, Jones, and Diana. “Amnesia?” his oldest brother repeats, and then comes the flood of concerned questions he knew were coming. It’s reassuring to know that even after eight years - he would be, what, twenty-six or -seven now? - Dick would never change. “Are you okay? Did something happen? What kind of amnesia? What do you remember? When do your memories end?”

“Retrograde. Sixteen. My birthday was just the other week. That I remember, anyway,” he adds, slightly bitter, with maybe a bit of a scowl on his face.

“Do you know if it’s permanent?” There’s a sound of a chair on wheels rolling across smooth flooring. Tim recognizes it as the ‘Batchair,’ dubbed so unanimously by the Batkids in an attempt to annoy Bruce, and the familiarity calms him. “Or at least not going away soon?” Dick adds.

“As far as I can tell, yes. But it’s not been that long since I woke up not remembering anything, so.” He checks the time. “Not even twelve hours.”

“And you think you can handle it okay? Can I help in any way?”

“Yeah, I’m good, Dick,” Tim says, and he feels a smile grow on his face as he ducks his head instinctively. He’s still not used to all this care and _attention_ the family, even Bruce, even _Damian_ , in their own unique ways, give him. Well, sometimes it’s just the attention, and less the care, as is the case with Jason and Damian, but Tim still counts it. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“If you’re absolutely sure,” Dick says. 

“I’ve got some of my blood in the fridge at the moment - could I send it up? If you could analyze it and send the results back, if there ends up being anything off about it, I can compare it to some other things and see. It’s a long shot, but…”

“Of course. I’ll send Damian down there with a bike tonight. He probably won’t stop and say hi, sorry about that. We’ve all been stressed lately, you know? Just… leave it out on the balcony in a refrigerated case or something?”

“It’s Damian,” Tim says in answer, “thanks.”

There’s a brief pause in which Tim doesn’t know what to say, but the chair’s wheels sound again, turning back around, and then Dick quickly begins, tone a bit worried, “So, I’m on an urgent case…”

Tim huffs fondly. “You’ll have to give the details again, and right now I’m locked out of my laptop until I can hack my way in, but I can get to it as soon as I can. You also said something about Steph sending me something to work on as well? Could you let her know and have her resend it when she can? Hers isn’t urgent, is it?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Didn’t sound it, anyway. I’ll let her know,” Dick replies. “Thanks, Timmy!”

“No problem.”

Dick groans like he’s stretching out his back. “You’re missing, what, eight years or something around that? You should have some help,” he decides. “I’d come down myself and help, but like I said, I’m on a bad one I really need to focus on. I’d send Damian but he’s helping me and I don’t know if he’d really, uh, help…” Tim muffles a laugh at Dick’s despondent voice. Damian’s… Damian-ness still being around is another comforting familiarity. “Everyone else is busy,” Dick goes on, “not that they wouldn’t drop everything and go anyway, but…” He sounds hesitant, before, “I’m going to send Jason down, okay?”

“What! No!” Tim barely manages not to shout, horror clear in his voice. The FBI agents on the couch don’t react well to his outburst after a minute of calm silence, hands straying to their guns instinctively. He ignores them. “Not him! Please, Dick, if you value my sanity and wellbeing, please don’t send him!”

“Tim…” Dick sighs. He sounds worn-out and tired, and for a moment, Tim feels a bit bad for reacting so harshly. Then he remembers Jason’s voice growling out, “Replacement,” menacingly, and his many, many guns, and the fact he’s literally tried to _kill him_ in the past. Even if Jason’s calmed down a bit since then, still, he thinks his terror is well-justified.

“I don’t care what eight years has done to his temper, he only tried to kill me, what, last year!? Yeah, that! Tell me right now, honestly, that he doesn’t still call me ‘replacement’ and doesn’t want to _murder_ me!”

There’s a moment of silence before Dick says weakly, “He doesn’t kill anymore?”

“Oh, and that makes me feel so much better,” Tim retorts hotly. “He didn’t actually kill me the last time, but he did beat me to near death with my own staff!”

“Tim, if you really don’t feel comfortable with Jason, I…” His brother sighs in frustration. “I don’t know what I can do, honestly. No one else is available! I know the history between you, and I wouldn’t be suggesting it if it wasn’t the literal only option. You picked a really bad time to get amnesia, little brother…”

Tim scowls, and thinks. He also carefully ignores the alarmed faces of his ‘handlers.’ “...Are you _sure_ he’s the only one available? Absolutely sure?”

Dick sighs in relief. “Yes, Timmy, I’m absolutely sure. It’s been a really busy month, and I don’t see anything calming down. Jason’s actually been helping out a bit, just… the least.”

Tim barks a short laugh. “Why am I not surprised?” he mutters. 

Dick chuckles an agreement, but tells him, “He’s actually… gotten better. He’s not _good_ , but well, he’s Jason, and he’s always going to be Jason. But I swear to you, Tim, if I thought there was any chance he’d hurt you, I’d never let him anywhere near you,” he promises grimly. “You know that.”

“I do,” Tim says. “Okay, fine, send Jason. If he even agrees to come.” Peter makes an alarmed noise, this time, and aborts a protective reach for Tim. Tim’s touched by their protectiveness, he is, but also, now that he’s thinking about it, he probably shouldn’t have been so literal about Jason’s tendencies out loud like he had been.

The laughing gas-like substance probably isn’t all gone, he decides. He’ll have to be more careful. 

He tries to not think about how Jason’s always been able to provoke him into raging.

“Thanks, Timmy!” Dick’s voice sounds lighter and happier immediately. Sometimes, if Tim didn’t know Dick and how genuine he truly is, he’d think the first Robin was just playing them. “I’ll tell him to be on his best behaviour!”

“Right. I know Jason, eight years or not, he can’t have changed _that_ much. In fact, if you tell him that, he’ll probably do the opposite. Just telling him to not come packing illegally unless he wants to be arrested by the FBI agents that are doing a twenty-four hour watch on me.”

“Well,” Dick says, and Tim gets the idea he’s lifting his eyebrows at the idea of a twenty-four hour watch on a Batchild. “I can try.”

“Sure,” Tim huffs. There’s a beat of comfortable silence between them, before a light bulb goes off in Tim’s head. “Also, if you could send me a file on what I’ve been up to, who Neal Caffrey is, and any other pertinent info I’m missing, that’d be nice.”

“Sure, can do, I’ll send it right away.” Tim hears the faint tapping of keys. “You want Bat-stuff updates?”

“Yes, and on the business, too,” Tim confirms. “Both of them.”

“Okay, Bat-related, Wayne business, and Drake business files coming your way, along with your current situation. That all you want right now?” At Tim’s affirmative, he continues, “And do you want the Bat-stuff in full code, if you’re unsure about the security?”

“Yeah. It’s possible some of it might be read, I’ve got three FBI agents listening to me right now, even.”

Dick sounds amused as he replies, “I thought something like that was going on. Well-”

“I know, I’ll be careful.”

“And?” Dick teases.

“...and I’ll get some sleep and not overwork myself, yes, I know, stop worrying so much, Dick,” Tim smiles as he talks.

“Then stop doing things to make me worry, Timmy. I can’t help but care!”

“Well, if you cared as much as you say, you wouldn't be sending _Jason_ ,” Tim sends back mostly playfully.

Dick laughs, bright and warm, and it’s a reassuring sound - Tim finds comfort in Dick’s never-ending cheerfulness and optimism, even years into the future. “You’ll be seeing him in a couple days, probably. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know if he decides he’s not going to. Keep me updated, and let me know if you need any help!”

“I will. Be careful.”

“You, too. Bye, Timmy,” Dick says warmly.

“Bye, Dick.”

Tim hangs up with a faint smile left on his face, and looks up to face the expectant, mildly horrified gazes of the aforementioned nosy FBI agents. Peter especially is giving him a look that screams beyond worried. He gives them a long, considering glance, the smile fading.

They probably have a lot of misconceptions, he realises suddenly, feeling stupid he didn’t take more precautions with what he was saying, even if he was under an influence - he trained himself for this, _Bruce_ trained him for this.

Without the background information, he’d imagine that his panic attack on the rooftop earlier and his - well-deserved - complaining about Jason combined would lead someone to some worryingly wrong conclusions. And didn’t he let slip he was a Gothamite as well?

_Ah, shit,_ he thinks, lips curved into a frown as he stares at them, finally understanding the amount he’s going to have to explain.

At least, he tries to think on the positive side, he’s going to get some time to explain before Jason arrives and inevitably screws everything up.

“You’re going to snoop, aren’t you?” he begins. “And just get suspicious if I hide things?” The questions don’t sound much like questions to his ears.

Peter nods, even as Diana frowns sympathetically at him, concern in her dark eyes.

“Because even with amnesia, I’m a criminal, and therefore have no privacy,” Tim drones, not surprised. They look, at least, a bit contrite at that fact. “I might as well just tell you what’s happening then, before you get curious and dig, right?”

Jones shrugs, leaning forward, as Peter nods again and makes a vaguely impatient ‘hurry it up’ sound that he recognizes from his first father, from when he was around, anyway. The comparison makes him grimace.

“Okay,” he sighs, and takes a long drink of his coffee, gulping it down in quick swallows. 

He knows his future self is probably not going to appreciate this decision, but he believes that it’s safer than letting their curiosity grow until they start to dig and uncover things he can’t control. 

‘If you have to give up information, control the information you have to give,’ Bruce’s voice rings in his head, lecturing.

It’s just a trio of FBI agents, he thinks to himself - ultimately, how important are they?

He mentally apologies to twenty-four year old Tim for utterly blowing his cover, but he really doesn’t see a way to get around these FBI agents’ curiosity. Besides, he finds, he doesn’t really _want_ to - the effort alone involved would be monumentous, and Tim doesn’t find the energy for that kind of trick to be in him at the moment.

He eyes the trio once more, before starting. “My name’s Tim Drake. You might’ve heard of Drake Industries, or Wayne Enterprises?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fact: Jason is my favourite Batchild. i'm quite excited to get to him maybe next chapter, though it might the one after that, thinking about it. unless the next one's extra long, who knows.
> 
> Dick kind of steals the centre stage on this one. originally, that phone conversation was only 250 words, dialogue only, one-sided, because the chapter was from an agent's pov, not Tim's. then in my notes, i expanded that to almost 500 by including what Dick might've been saying. then i was like, well, now i want to put Dick's side into the actual chapter, and then, later, i had this 1600-some words.
> 
> Tim might have overreacted to the news Jason was coming, but also... did he?
> 
> hope you all you guys enjoyed this update! please, point out any errors you see so i can fix them up, and also beware that minor changes/edits probably won't happen, but there /is/ a chance.
> 
> (edit: also feel free to hop on our WC/B discord. we're pretty active and pretty friendly! click [here](https://discord.gg/SnjTSuvtds)!)


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